


the gag and the bind and the ammunition round

by sharkie



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Revolutionary angst, spoilers for Great Hellbound Railway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25053979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Doing the right or right-ish thing, over the years.
Relationships: The Jovial Contrarian/Sinning Jenny (Fallen London)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Going Through It and the hell railway gave me ideas. Title is from 'Not About Love' by Fiona Apple.

There’s a scene which Sinning Jenny replays from early childhood. She was running surefooted on the cobbled roofs of the convent, a pole in one hand and laughter leaving her throat as pants. Then another runner - Lydia? - yelped, and Jenny turned sharply, anxious to help. Jenny slipped. Her ankle twisted. She remembers the pain of her first notable training injury and, worse, she remembers the rare feeling of failure, more crushing than gravity as she struggled to land.

“Slower,” chided Mother Superior, a stern woman with smooth skin and ages of wisdom hard in her gaze. “And focus on yourself, no matter what. You can’t help anyone if you’re dead.”

* * *

Three months into Jenny's management, a Parlour aide parts the beaded curtains to her boudoir and wordlessly presents her with a pouch packed with Rostygold.

Jenny takes one look and says, “That’s not enough.”

“The gentleman says that’s the old price for an appointment with the madame.” A particular helplessness strains the aide’s voice. Jenny wishes she could replicate the tone in certain clients. “He says it’s urgent.”

“Well, that’s a shame, since I charge _double_ for emergencies...”

The aide scurries to convey the information. Heated whispers arise from past the curtain. Shortly afterwards, a bag of Rostygold sails through the doorway and lands at Jenny's feet. It’s followed by a loud squeaking sound. A figure emerges: a grinning dark-haired man in a wheeled chair.

“I trust that’s sufficient,” he says.

“I hope so, petal.” Jenny flashes her most benevolent smile, sweeping the bag onto her lap. “I’ll count while you talk.”

“No.” _No?_ She lets a piece of Rostygold slip from her fingers and clatter onto the floor. “I require your full attention.”

“You don’t understand how this works,” Jenny says.

“What?” The man looks around like he’s fallen asleep on a Wolfstack-docked ship and woken up at Frostfound. Evidently the situation amuses him. Or maybe it’s her decor. Either way, he waves her off with a scoff. “Oh, _that_. Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

Now Jenny frowns. “Whatever it is you’re doing, I charge extra.”

“I’m the Jovial Contrarian,” he announces, “and I’m going to recruit you to the Revolution.”

The name is familiar - she’s read his articles in multiple papers. She found them witty, verbose, and utterly callous.

“People fail to seduce me every day,” Jenny reminds him. “Why on earth would your little cause be of any interest?”

“It’s a natural match. You love being wanted, albeit within reason.” The Contrarian gestures at breadth of the room, as if to say, _Obviously._ “We want you. I promise we don’t need you.”

Jenny laughs; a rich, belly-deep laugh, disarming, deceptive. She gives her assent - loudly, to stress that he required it - and plants her chin in her palm. She nods for him to speak.

For the next hour he attempts to entice her to the Cause. What keeps the Parlour in bondage to the Bazaar? Money? He can pay them, in addition to Jenny independently maintaining their current business. Protection? Particular acquaintances could discourage troublemakers better than any Clay guards. Cultural differences? He’s heard about the strides Parlour employees have made in terms of negotiating with the Masters. In fact, if they really think about it, she’s _already_ a Revolutionary -

Jenny holds up a hand. “I’ve heard what your comrades say about Bohemians, particularly Bazaarines and Parlour workers. I don't belong to a 'cause' that claims my people whenever we benefit it, and disavows us when we're liabilities.”

The Contrarian lifts an eyebrow, takes a breath, and opens his mouth.

“Your time is up,” she says.

On cue, the aide enters. The Contrarian hands them another purse of Rostygold without looking.

“Ten minutes,” he says.

“Five,” Jenny retorts coolly. “And only if you come closer.”

They don't even touch, but she takes the opportunity to better examine his face and hands as he argues, watching for telltale cracks in his flippant composure or glimpses of humanity beneath the bluster. It would be useful information to hoard for their next encounter. There will probably be a next encounter, provided nobody permanently murders him in a fit of ire. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up to the fic months late with Darkdrop Coffee* yo this is my horny box. it might have a plot. who knows.

There’s a scene which the Jovial Contrarian replays from early childhood. He doesn’t remember which caregiver urged him forward; he doesn’t remember the colour of the sky or the shape of the streets; he doesn’t even remember pain lancing from his feet to his shins. Mostly, he remembers acquiring the memory, the first cognizant realisation more striking than any future diagnosis: _This probably shouldn’t be hard._

“Come on, boy, just one more step.” And, impatiently, under their breath: “If you can crawl, surely you can walk.”

* * *

“Five more minutes,” Sinning Jenny says. “Speed would be prudent on your part.”

“Or yours.”

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

The Jovial Contrarian assesses his position. According to the clock, Jenny is, unfortunately, right. Outside the boardroom, distant shouts volley back and forth. No footsteps approach. The table before them is long, wide, and well-polished. Any semblance of mess would be instantly noticeable. Perspiration has begun to bead at the base of his hairline, worsened by the building’s hellish default temperature.

His cock is hard and almost painful in Jenny’s hands, but that isn’t important right now.

“Slow down,” he suggests. “You’ll break your wrist.”

Jenny pauses to dedicate her energy to glaring at him. He relishes these cracks in her charisma, increasingly common in his presence, especially during these pointless board meetings. They're the real crumbs of passion amidst all the meaningless words and empty gestures, the stale proposals and tepid voting -

An unexpected squeeze makes him gasp.

“If you don’t come before the meeting,” Jenny says, matter-of-factly, “you don’t come at all.”

“You have no say over that,” the Contrarian retorts. “I _will_ spend afterwards, in the privacy of my own home and in my own hand, away from your _ineffectual_ tugging -”

Jenny tsks and slaps his prick lightly. His eyes water from the sting and the implicit rejection. On days like this, she doesn't waste words, least of all on him. 

Then: footsteps, rapidly nearing the boardroom. She hears it first, giving him a few final strokes before leaning back in her chair with a chagrined huff. The Contrarian fumbles his trousers closed - as much as possible - and throws his blanket over his lap just as the door opens. 

"Apologies!" His Amused Lordships looks them over with an all-too-knowing smile. "Am I interrupting?"

"Nothing important," Jenny says. She doesn't smile back. Years of pseudo-Revolutionary strife and political turmoil have eroded her social graces to the point of merely tolerating half of the board. "You're here early." 

"Maybe we should start," says His Lordship, "before Virginia and Southwark bring the building down with their arguments."

"They're amateurs," says the Contrarian, in a remarkably level tone, all things considered. 

More board members file into the room. The Tentacled Entrepreneur burbles his hellos, festooned with paraphernalia from his ongoing mayoral campaign. He heads towards his usual seat next to the Dean of Xenotheology, and she beams at her friend's approach. What does it feel like, having people look forward to one's arrival? The Contrarian shakes his head. Feducci blusters past; it's half-surprising he isn't waving a weapon overhead. Next comes Virginia, still scowling from her argument with Southwark as well as newfound tension with Feducci. 

By the time everyone is seated, the Contrarian has calmed down to his default level of disagreeable excitability.

"I propose that we hire devils," says the Contrarian. 

"Impossible," snarls Virginia. 

"They should be porters and clerks, with human managers," he continues. "If my time as mayor taught me anything, it's that those in positions of power should lower themselves to foster cooperation. It's the best way to improve Hell-London relations. It'll be Saturnalia on wheels. On fire." 

Most board members groan. Others shift, silent, considering it. Southwark in particular looks torn. The Contrarian glances at Jenny. Support? Objection? Anything? She's staring at the wall, cold and unreadable as a marble statue. So it goes.


End file.
